A Smudge on the Sill

Go with it man, if you must,
but leave us markers on your way.
from "A Poem for Painters" by John Wieners

Early April, six inches of snow, the blades
of tulips push up in the overgrown flower bed.
Markers of Spring, yes, it is coming, just not
today, or maybe even, not tomorrow.

I clear the path to the garage, heavy wet
white everywhere, and around the peace
pole with its red and yellow ribbons.  I
wrote the names and dates on those markers
to show me the way to walk with those gone.

The yard squirrel has dug through to
 where the yellow kernels of dry corn are
buried, corn I have fed him all winter to keep
him alive. I see him as a marker for the good

I can do.  But some are more subtle.

 I watch for signs.  The full moon
shining like a light bulb through my bedroom window.
A penny dropped in the parking lot.  An open book
on the side table, an old photo curling, the message
light flashing on the phone.

and yes, sometimes, a post of Facebook,
or am email. God looks for every
opportunity to speak to us.  Keep a journal,
walk in the woods, throw a rune, pick a card,
look up a number, look at your palm, look
at your face. Remember a dream.

Marker, marker, come out wherever you are.
Whoever came be fore me, must have left
footprints.  A smudge on the sill, a broken
glass.  A tiny drop of blood.  

Carolyn Hull